


Seven days

by scenerv



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Ancient China, Fluff, I suppose, Implied Sexual Content, Junhui is rich, M/M, Minor Character Death, Nothing to bad, Potter wonwoo, Wonwoo is a merchant, dancer junhui, help me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 09:59:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14788358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scenerv/pseuds/scenerv
Summary: Junhui falls in love with a man from across the sea





	Seven days

**Author's Note:**

> Hellooo! (*^o^*)  
> I'm back from hell aka finals.  
> I had this idea sitting at the back of my head for a while now, but due to finals, I couldn't.´д` ;  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this fic!
> 
> P.s: Sorry for any grammar  
> mistakes

It was the break of dawn. As the golden sun rose steadily in the Eastern Sky, so too did a young, slender-bodied boy by the name of Wen Junhui. Reflexively, he twisted his arms and legs in different directions to stretch his body. A routine etched into his limbs by now. Bend now, break later. What Junhui's father used to say to him as a young boy. He took in a deep breath of cold morning air. Bà.

 

The memory of his father drifted across his mind’s eye like a ripple through a pond. Started with a small splash, made waves, then stopped. You couldn’t control the ripple of memories. Junhui's mind and spirit, still as water, disturbed by rocks thrown not too long ago.

 

His father was dead. His father, Wen Linong, had been a high-ranking general in the Imperial Army, serving a fairly important base at the Northern Border. Though he’d only been in and out of Junhui's life growing up, the moments he shared with his father were ones he cherished, and he looked back on them fondly. Three months ago, he'd received a letter from the Imperial Army bearing tidings that his father had died in a raid at the border from the steppe barbarians. The letter noted that an arrow had impaled his heart as he was asleep. The news came some time later than his actual death. Letters took time to travel. Sorrow, however, did not. Sorrow seeds in your heart and spreads like wildfire, consumes the spirit. Burns down memories of learning calligraphy under autumn plum blossoms or listening to old legends recounted by a deep voice beneath a starlit sky. Memories may remain, but in ashes they are no longer as beautiful as they once were.

 

He’d never known his mother. As his father told him (just once) before, she had died as she gave birth to him nineteen years past. His father, a loyal and sentimental man, never took on a second wife, though he had every right to if he so wanted. Instead, he’d chosen to raise his only son alone, to live a life as uncomplicated as could be for an army General, though he did eventually take on several concubines. Nearly every man of status did. Upon learning of his death three months ago, the women had left the family compound to seek lives elsewhere, likely as dancing girls in any of the countless pleasure houses peppered throughout the city. They were older now, but still beautiful women. There was no point in letting their life waste away for a man that had passed into another realm. Their duty did not extend so far.

 

Only his father’s faithful servants, Dai Shan and Zhou Feng, remained. They had been serving the Wen family since before Junhui was born, and were both very old. Junhui thinks that even they have forgotten just how old they were. They were loyal to his father, and loved Junhui as their own son. They would stay with him until their last days under Heaven.

 

Junhui lit a candle by the altar for his father, as he did every morning, and prayed. Sorrow seeding, sorrow spreading. You did what you could to lead a righteous life, but fate is capricious, and pays no mind to human sorrow. Happiness is a blessing.

 

✧

 

Luoyang had been bustling with activity since sun-rise. The normally spacious main streets of the glorious Tang Dynasty capital, which could fit ten royal horses side-by-side, were filled with crowds of people. Tomorrow morning would mark the beginning of the Peony Festival, a seven-day-long annual festival held in the Capital throughout which the people of China would celebrate Spring, the August Emperor (may he live a thousand years), and China’s peonies, the king of flowers and much loved by the Chinese people. The peonies in Luoyang were regarded as the most beautiful in the world. They sprouted by the millions in the numerous gardens peppered in and around the city, and flowing out into the long, meandering hills of yellow-green grass beyond, created a sea of colour. They were subtle, gentle, represented honour and beauty. Could be given to a lover as a gift. Placed lovingly in a daughter’s hair. Steeped into an aromatic floral tea. Given to a mother as a sign of filial piety. Or a father.

 

The festival took place when the peonies of Luoyang were in full bloom, when life in the world was at its most vibrant. It was one of the few times of year where people of all status could somewhat live outside the expectations placed upon them by birthright or by society, and simply dwell in the festivities as a man (or woman) of China. In Luoyang, the center of the world.

 

Merchants of all kinds were busily erecting their stands by the side of the road in front of their homes. For those that did not live in the Capital, booths were set up in the marketplace. Or, in any free space remaining that they could find. Luoyang was a big city. There would be hundreds of thousands of merchants mingling here from all of parts of China and beyond, trading their wares and treasures, brought in from ships hailing from across the Eastern Sea or from the Silk Roads that trickled into China from the Far West. There would also be farmers, peasants, soldiers, families of all walks of life making their way to Luoyang to see the peonies, to experience the lights and tastes of the Capital in all its Spring glory.

 

Junhui saw all this and more while walking to his dance academy across the city. There would not be practice today, not with the Peony Festival beginning tomorrow, but he didn’t feel like sitting idle at home while waiting for the festival to begin, and his widowed teacher would surely be there at the academy to watch him as he danced. After her husband had passed, she spent all her days there. That was her sole purpose in life now.

 

His family compound was near the Emperor’s palace, but outside the palace gates. Families up to a seventh degree of relation to the Emperor were allowed to live in the palace compound, and the so-called Imperial Clan received a handsome allowance every month. Those families lived easy lives, much to the (not-so-secret) despise of others outside its walls. The Wen family was ninth in relation. Though they did not receive the same benefits, they received, still, a regular allowance of a comfortable sum. His parents were deceased, but Junhui would continue to receive these sums for life, as long as the current Emperor would reign.

 

If he wanted, he could lead a simple life, like those palace aristocrats, a life filled only with game and pleasure. Play polo with his other would-be Imperial Clanmates. Write poetry with the best ink, inkstone, horse-tail brushes, hibiscus-stalk paper. Visit pleasure houses and enjoy singing girls to Pípá and wine. Find a wife one summer day. Have sons. But Junhui didn’t want that kind of life, wanted to find more meaning in his. He didn’t want to study for the civil service examinations, either - the court was not for him. It was too cold, too severe. Too stressful. And he was not the kind of man that could calculate and connive. Other men would fight those subtle, life-changing battles at court, make decisions for the rest of China.

 

Junhui loved to dance. He learned from an esteemed academy in Luoyang that he’d joined when he was a little boy, with the support of his father. His teacher, Lady Xiang, was a strict but patient lady. Would not give special (or worse) treatment to him simply for being a boy, an Imperial relative no less. Had placed him under the harsh standards of Traditional Dance that would be expected of any other student.

 

Dancing was uncommon for men. Some may think it improper for a man to dance. After all, dance was what women did to provide pleasure for men, what they could offer to men in dim light amidst heavy perfume, slender and graceful bodies moving beneath soft silk. Under the spell of soft music, red wine. Lust. But his father had ignored those who gave him their criticisms, let his son grow into his passion. What difference was there, between dancing to the rhythm of a song and to the twisting of a sword?

 

And so, on that early spring morning until the beginnings of that same day’s dusk, Junhui danced under Lady Xiang’s watchful eye, to songs spoken aloud from the Dynasty’s finest and most treasured poets along with the soft strumming of her Pípá, echoing ancient sentiments from thousands of years ago.

 

Thousands and thousands of regrets.

 

The most painful one stays in a remote corner.

 

Mountain and moon know nothing

about what is on my mind.

 

Rain and wind blow Spring away

far over the rolling hills.

 

The emerald clouds sway slantwise in the sky.

 

✧

 

During the Peony Festival, it was entirely normal for those that travelled from beyond the capital to be offered homestay in a civilian’s home inside the city’s gates. The foreigner typically offers a small fee to the patron of the home, or the patron himself might ask this of his guest, but this courtesy was not law, nor strictly required. There was no crime or deception to be had the Peony Festival. It was against the will of the Son of Heaven, would be a shame to the Emperor and the Glory of China.

 

This was how Junhui had come to open his door to a man with dark brown eyes that same night, during the full bloom of spring, the night before the festival.

 

“Greetings my lord,” the man bowed formally. “Forgive my indecency... but would you be so kind as to offer a place to retreat for the evening?”

 

Junhui was dressed in his evening gown, getting ready to eat his dinner prepared by Shan, the better cook of his two servants. He felt a little sheepish - he hadn’t opened his doors like this to anyone in a long time. At least, not after his father’s death. He’d become a recluse, and kept only to his servants and Lady Xiang. The man was holding a pack over his shoulder, probably filled with items to be sold throughout the week. Likely a merchant, perhaps from a prefecture outside the Capital. Junhui was a little impressed that the man had the courage to ask for homestay in his compound, as it was clearly marked with Imperial relation. It had been very rare in years past for visitors to stay in his family’s compound, though of course, his father opened their doors for all that had asked.

 

This created ripples again.

 

“Sure,” Junhui said with a slight smile. “Please, make yourself comfortable. You can stay the week if you want - my home is rather empty at the moment.” Feng was behind Junhui, standing politely with his arms crossed and hidden in the long sleeves of his robe. Sicheng turned around, looking back at him kindly, “Feng, would you please prepare the guest room for this gentleman? And tell Shan to prepare an extra bowl of rice.”

 

Feng nodded courteously and shuffled down the hall in haste.

 

“Thank you,” the stranger bowed again. “You are too kind.”

 

Junhui ushered him through the door. “Please, no need for formalities. My status is not so high as to demand such courtesies.” Junhui glanced at his pack. It was large, looked heavy. The man must be exhausted. “You can put your belongings down in the guest room. It’s the third room to the right. Feng will prepare you a small bed. You can wash in our basin, in the courtyard. But first, we will eat. Shan is a wonderful cook.”

 

“You are too kind,” the man repeated once more, in his deep voice. His face was bright, twinkling like a constellation. Then, suddenly, a hint of inquiry. “My apologies,” he took another look at Junhui with eyes as clear as spring itself, “what is your name?”

 

“My name is Wen Junhui, son of Wen Linong.” Junhui flinched a little at the mention of his father’s name aloud. It’s been a while. “And you?”

 

The man (or boy - he looked Junhui's age, after all) replied, like a song, “the name’s Zai-Xuan. But in Goryeo, where I come from, it’s pronounced a bit more like Won-woo. Of the Jeon family. Nice to meet you.”

 

So, he was a merchant from Goryeo. Not notably uncommon during the Peony Festival, but Junhui had never spoken to a man from the peninsula. Or maybe he had. They did speak Chinese after all (who didn’t?), albeit with a noticeable accent.

 

 Like Junhui, he was young, but at the brink of manhood. They were the same height. He was extremely handsome. Had very light skin, reminded Junhui of silk and alabaster, and eyes that when he smiled, became shaped like crescent-moons a quarter full.

 

That familiar feeling. Something seeding, and spreading. This time, not sorrow.

 

✧

 

Over supper, Junhui and Wonwoo learned that they had more in common than either of them could have thought. Was it possible to find a man whose life mirrored yours from across the sea?

 

Junhui had told Wonwoo that he wasn’t studying for the civil service examinations like everyone else, that he wanted to dance, and always had. Was a little reluctant to tell Wonwoo about that, a little afraid that he might receive the same reaction that he had so many times before, but Wonwoo was impressed, curious, even in awe that Junhui learned Traditional Chinese dance since young. It was refreshing, he’d said, to see a man follow the path he wanted, despite the disapproval of others. Then, Junhui learned that Wonwoo, too, had found a passion in something unconventional. Wonwoo loved pottery, made a living of it. Shaped all sorts of things, useful and decorative, from clay and mud on a spinning wheel, shaping, creating with his hands. Accented them with gemstones, metals, and jewels. Painted them. An activity usually reserved for women in Goryeo (and in China), he’d said between sips of oolong, but it was what he was good at and what he loved to do. Came from something found in the spirit, called passion.

 

“So, I’m here to visit the festival to sell and trade my own works,” Wonwoo continued. “I brought with me a bunch of teacups, pots, plates, bowls... and all sorts of figurines that I made back in Goryeo. I painted some of them, lined others with lacquer and celadon from my hometown. Practical and elegant, thought a little extravagant. Hopefully, I can trade them for some Chinese ceramics. Fine China is coveted in Goryeo.”

 

Junhui nodded. “I think you have nothing to worry about. I’m sure you’ll make quite the earning here this week. Do you have a good spot by the marketplace?” Wonwoo had said earlier that it was his first time in Luoyang, and his first time at the Peony Festival.

 

“Do you know the Town Square? I should have a spot next to a crowded eatery there, in the North-East corner,” the silk-skinned merchant scrunched his nose, as if trying to squeeze out a faint recollection from earlier that day. “Little Xuan’s Noodles?”

 

“That,” Junhui took a sip of tea, “is an excellent spot. You have no idea how busy Little Xuan’s is during the Peony Festival. Their noodles are delicious, and in my opinion, the finest in Luoyang. The chef there almost rivals my own Shan.” Sicheng looked back at Shan, who was standing by the doorway with an almost-smile on his old face. Shan really was a great chef. He’d cooked Gāi lán*, lotus root, and steamed river fish with ginger and chives and coriander for them tonight. Even accompanied by oolong tea with flowers of osmanthus (they usually had jasmine, but perhaps Shan had opted for something different with the festival beginning tomorrow). Fish was what Junhui loved to eat the most.

 

Now it was Wonwoo's turn to nod. “If Little Xuan’s is anything like Shan’s cooking as you say, then I’m sure both their business and mine will do just fine.”

 

Junhui smiled again. For some reason, his face wouldn’t stop doing that whenever Wonwoo spoke. “But if I may ask, where is the rest of your family? Surely, your father and mother ought to join us. I feel dishonourable if I am to stay without giving them proper greeting.”

 

Junhui's smile faltered. He looked down at his bowl, played around with a few grains of rice before taking a breath to respond, looking back up at Wonwoo in the eyes, eyes that began to waver a little at the possibility that bounds were overstepped. “Both my parents are dead,” Junhui spoke, unbeknownst to himself, so quietly that he was almost whispering. My mother died as I was born, and my father died three months ago, by the hands of the steppe barbarians. He was a General in the Imperial Army.”

 

Wonwoo's features fell, his face blanking. “I… I’m so sorry,” he said. “I should have known! It should have been clear to me, how you opened the door to your home, I should have--”

 

“No,” Junhui cut in, “it’s fine. It’s really not your fault in any way.” And it wasn’t. Fate, like a river, flows where it will, and we are carried with it or left behind. Not even the Emperor, with the Will of Heaven, knows the path that the stars have laid out for us.

 

“I’m sorry,” Wonwoo said again, looking into Junhui's eyes. “But perhaps, I may share my own truth?” The merchant paused for a moment. “My parents are dead as well. Well, at least I believe so. I never knew my mother, and my father never spoke about her. My father was a fisherman. In Goryeo, we lived in a port city by the sea - one day, his ship left, and never returned. They say,” Wonwoo inhaled sharply, “that spirits that drown in the sea are never laid to rest.”

 

Junhui froze. He looked into Wonwoo's eyes, the deep, dark-brown spheres that offered a glimpse into his soul. Wonwoo stared back at Junhui, let him look into his eyes that were peering into Junhui's own. The two men, locked in the other’s gaze, each glimpsing for the first time, a reflection of himself. The pain that a boy could carry, having to walk his own path without a mother to care for him, a father to guide him. Finding purpose again, in a passion others did not understand.

 

You could, of course, find a mirror across the sea. After all, fate is indiscriminate in that way. She does not know where the men that she wills to bring together were brought into the world, or cares. Only that they will, somehow, be brought together as she so wishes.

 

A river converges with another river that flows in the same direction to the sea.

 

❋❋❋

 

The first day of the festival was always the busiest. Junhui awoke to the sound of laughter, bargaining, and lively conversation ringing softly in his ears from beyond his family compound’s walls. It was early morning, but the festival had already begun, and Wonwoo was already gone. He would have risen before the sun in order to make it to his selling post and prepare his streetside shop for the day. Borrowed a wooden cart for a fee. Arranged his finest pieces of pottery attractively for aristocrats, women, young children to see and awe and be intrigued. Warm up his voice to entice passers-by. Which, Junhui though, must not take much effort for a handsome man like Jeon Wonwoo of Goryeo.

 

His two servants were home, Shan preparing his morning meal and tea, and Feng out in the back clearing the basin and filling it with clean water for Junhui to bathe. They did not have any other family (at least, none alive) to celebrate with. Ushered Junhui to go to the festival alone. First time without his father by his side.

 

After praying and eating and washing, he put on his favourite tunic. Lapis-coloured and laced with silk from Arabia. His father had gotten it for him at last year’s Peony Festival, from a merchant that travelled to the glorious Luoyang from the very, very Far West. His father had said it made him look as handsome and dashing as the cosmos, even mysterious, like the moon peeking through the night clouds among a million stars. Junhui put on a matching pair of silk pants and rabbit-fur shoes, and glanced at his reflection in the basin. He’d grown up a lot in three months. The death of someone you loved could do that to you.

 

Brushing aside these thoughts, he took a handful of copper and silver coins, placed them in his coin satchel, and shouted to his two servants that he’d be leaving for the day.

 

Stepping outside of his door amplified every sense.

 

So many people on the streets, crowded, leaving barely enough room to weave through without brushing shoulders with those next to you. The Emperor’s palace was decorated today, had grand red-and-gold banners bearing the words of blessings, rolled over the gates. Almost every home was adorned in the essence of Spring. Picked chrysanthemums and orchids lining doors like tiny bells. Windows open to baskets of sweet-pear and kumquat. Peonies - lots, and lots of peonies - of all shades, of red and white and everything in between. Everywhere, tied up in the hair of young girls, tucked into the pockets of old men, woven around gifts and trinkets carried by children running through the streets. It was the Peony Festival, after all.

 

Smells of all kinds, especially nearing the marketplace. Hot food, steaming, fresh, right off the fire into hungry mouths. Dry pastries, bitter-sweets, hot cakes, buns, flavours brought in from different parts of China and from foreign lands. Meats, of all kinds. Junhui liked meat, but didn’t eat much of it. And definitely avoided meat of critters from the earth beneath their feet. No, back to the sweets. Could never have enough of those!

 

“Good day miss,” Junhui said in a slightly raised voice to project over the humming of the market, “two lotus-seed-paste buns, please.” He took a few copper coins out from his pocket.

 

“Oh, handsome boy! Good day!” The old lady shouted delightfully when she looked up from her spot behind her food stand. She pulled out a tray of fresh buns from a small iron oven, lit over a flame burning with oak and maple. “Still hot!” The lady smiled, taking Junhui's coins in her wrinkled palm. She handed him three buns instead of two.

 

“Miss, I paid for two buns, not three.”

 

“Young boy,” the lady replied. “Handsome boy. I give to you, no trouble for me.”

 

You didn’t reject the kindness that people offered you out of the goodness of their hearts, even if the lady offering was old, worked hard, deserved the money. Even if it was just one extra bun, hot and fresh, with sweet lotus-seed-paste inside. You couldn’t disgrace someone like that. Especially not during a celebration such as this.

 

So, Junhui smiled, slightly bowed his head in thanks, and placed an extra silver coin behind the counter when she turned back around. Much more than it would cost for a single sweet bun (silver was more precious than copper), but deserving for a small act of kindness. That was how the world was. Some people only take and take, and some people return the kindness you show to them. Who could say which of the two you were?

 

Junhui ate the buns quickly. They were delicious. The dough was soft, fluffy, a little chewy the way he liked. The lotus seed paste was sweet but not excessively so, captured the flavour of the lotus, its Essence. Was the right texture. Melted in his mouth, still hot. Reminded him of his father.

 

He thought about visiting Wonwoo at his own shop in the market, but decided not to. He didn’t want to disturb his bargaining or business. He’d see him later, anyhow.  
The sheer diversity and wonder of things being sold and traded was mind-boggling. Fine silk and tea from the South, wines and furs from the North. Beautiful carved-wood figures from the dexterous hands of craftsmen. Swords and bows from the forgeries of the finest blacksmiths. Horses, large, majestic horses, brought in from Arabia in the West. Even as wondrous and foreign as topaz and exotic spices from India. India! How far the merchant must have travelled to come here. Everyone coming to see the glory of Luoyang.

 

A new device called a compass. Apparently, it could tell you North-from-South and West-from-East even when one lost his bearings. In the green maze of a forest. In the open wild of the steppe. Or in the middle of the sea, from where a handsome man had come.

 

Something drew Junhui's attention to his left. A song sung by a beautiful girl, whilst playing the Èrhú* as if she were weaving silk with her hands.

 

I am alone on this spring day

Thunderclouds seek my company

 

Time passes but my heart remembers

Wounds heal but are not forgotten

 

The peonies blossom under gray sky

Are these tears or raindrops?

 

The melody is sad, the words hit home. Ripples in Junhui's heart. He manages to hold back the urge to cry, almost succumbing to the sorrow once more. It was improper conduct for a man to cry in public, in the presence of so many others. Perhaps he’d cry tonight if he could remember those words. Of course he would. Junhui placed a few copper coins respectfully in front of the girl. She didn’t look at him as he did so. He walked onward.

 

Ahead he saw a group of people huddled around something (or someone) in the middle of the Town Square. Junhui walked over briskly, curious to see what was causing the commotion.

 

In the middle of the small crowd was a short and stout man with an exotic bird on his shoulder. The man had very dark skin, and a long grey beard that reached almost his hips. He was wearing a black robe and held a cane firmly with both hands, a branch from a tree that looked older than the man himself. The bird was large, had a long curved beak, and colourful red and blue feathers. This old man was a storyteller, recounting an old legend. Or was it folklore? There would be debates later. Junhui listened, and let the words carry him away, allowed himself to lose track of time. Immerse himself in a story that was not his.

 

✧

 

Junhui told Wonwoo as much as he remembered of the story over dinner that night. It was the end of the day, and they were back in Junhui's home eating as they were yesterday, legs folded under a low table, sitting atop silk-embroidered cushions filled graciously with the feathers-of-swans. Wonwoo had laughed when Junhui said he’d actually believed the tale, believed in ghosts. Shush, Junhui had replied hurriedly, they might hear us. More laughter.

 

Shan surprised Junhui when he told him he’d actually left the house that day. He’d only spent a short time outside, and only walked to the market and back. Actually, Junhui was worried more than surprised. But Shan had made the trek to buy a duck to cook for dinner, said he was in the mood to cook good food. After all, there was a guest from Goryeo here! Feng had spent the day cleaning the house and practicing calligraphy as he usually did in their small courtyard out back. Both good men, much loved by Junhui. Thinking of them, talking to them, reminded him that he wasn’t alone in the family home. Still had some men of the past with him, for better or for worse. It made him happy, gave him a reason to smile.

 

Wonwoo never ate duck like this before. Well, he never had duck before at all (he preferred hen). But Shan had cooked the duck in an unconventional way. The elderly servant roasted the bird slowly over fire, so its skin became crispy but its meat retained moisture. He then cut the meat into very thin slices, and they were to wrap the meat in a thin piece of buckwheat, place green onion or coriander and sweet oyster sauce inside along with the meat. It was the trend these days.

 

“Shan, this is great,” Junhui said, licking his lips. “You should really open a restaurant.” He gave that a second thought. “Well, if you have the energy, that is. Were you okay going to the market yourself today? Did your hips give you any problems?” His eyes fell to his old servant’s waist, which he knew was hurting these days. “You shouldn’t have gone.”

 

Junhui looked to Shan standing beside them at the table, who shook his head, and returned his concerned gaze with a smile. The old man held up a hand reassuringly as if to tell Junhui that he was fine, his hips were fine, he shouldn’t worry. Shrugged and even chuckled a little at the restaurant comment. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t move like he used to.

 

Wonwoo took a sip of tea and perked up his shoulders. “君子之心不胜其小，而气量涵盖一世.” Even in Goryeo-accented Chinese, what he’d just said rang in Junhui's ears as clear as chimes in a gazebo by a still lake. The heart of a gracious man cares not about his own desires, but of all that it encompasses.

 

❋❋❋

 

The next few days passed by like verses in a song. Soft whispers beneath moonlight, intimate glances without words, secret touches underneath tables. Flowing unhindered, like fish in a stream to the sea, yet lingering like the last stubborn autumn leaves before winter’s first frost.

 

❋❋❋

 

On the second day, Junhui met with Wonwoo at sun-down as he was packing up shop, and treated him to a dinner at Little Xuan’s noodles (Wonwoo had wanted to see if it really did deserve being all the rage in Luoyang; apparently, it did, though Wonwoo still vouched that Shan’s cooking was the best). It was also Wonwoo's first time eating Chinese Lā miàn (“pulled noodles” Junhui had explained) and needless to say, he most likely slurped up his bowl of noodles a little louder than he would’ve liked, much to Junhui's amusement. After dinner, they toured the festival’s night markets, stopping to eat every dessert possible, from hot buns carefully crafted in the shape of a peach to glutinous rice balls with red-bean and black-sesame filling in a sweet soup. Wonwoo's favourite was the hot soft-tofu pudding, a little sweet with a bit of sugar and a little spicy with a pinch of ginger. Large red lanterns in every size and shape adorned the sides of the streets as if beckoning the forecoming of a god. Their soothing red lights, combined with the soft radiance of the moon, danced over every crevice of sandalwood and mahogany in the walls of the surrounding buildings, covering the ancient architecture in a blanket of red velvet. It was magical, it felt like a dream. And yet all Junhui could see was Wonwoo's princely face and his black hair blowing in the cool evening breeze.

 

As they ate, Junhui gave a commentary of what each dessert was, what they meant to him, and each time Wonwoo would share his own favourite desserts from Goryeo that resembled them and that if Junhui ever visited, that he should try. Junhui wasn’t exactly sure what to call the emotion he was feeling that night - exchanging childhood memories with a boy from across the Eastern sea, in-between mouthfuls of sweets and under the red glow of the lanterns around them. As they walked by a merchant selling bronze mirrors, Junhui saw his reflection, smiling, sincerely, probably for the first time since his father’s death. Must every emotion have a name? There must exist feelings that could be felt in this world, Junhui thought, that are too complex, too nuanced to be described by human words. Could this be one of them? He wondered what Wonwoo saw.

 

✧

 

I feel at ease when you are by my side.

 

❋❋❋

 

On the third day, Wonwoo decided to do his merchanting at night rather than during the day to see if business could be better with the night crowd. Junhui took the opportunity to show Wonwoo a bit more of Luoyang while they had the chance to be together during sun-up. ‘Peacock Park’, though not the most extravagant park in the Capital, was in Junhui's opinion, the most robustly beautiful, and, for him, most memorable. It featured long, winding trails through rolling hills and grassy fields peppered with blue iris, wild rose, and of course, peonies in red, yellow, orange, and white, shining in the sun like gemstones. Paths were lined with ancient trees maybe even older than China itself, colossal sentients with broad leaves providing shade to those below. Songbirds of every colour darted from tree to tree, each with slightly different feathers, each singing a slightly different tune.

 

Junhui used to walk here, every year during the Peony Festival with his father, first as a young boy learning to fly dragon-kites on fields of lemongrass; then, eventually, having mastered the art of kite-flying, as a young man racing his father across the sapphire sky. He was here, just a year ago, with his father. He could almost see the two of them here, in the same spot on the grass, almost hear their laughter that once broke the air. Junhui shared these memories with Wonwoo - there was something genuine, organic, raw about him that made Junhui comfortable, that allowed him to so easily open up to. It was the sincerity of his smile. His reassuring words when Junhui felt tense. A gentle but firm hand when it was needed. Junhui bought two dragon-face-kites from a seller, a slender one with blue scales for himself and a funny-looking red one with bulged eyes for Wonwoo. Junhui, being the experienced kite-flyer, walked Wonwoo through the basics slowly, as his father had taught him so many years ago. Wonwoo was a natural. Before long, their kites were dancing in the air, carried by the spring breeze, sashaying in the partly-clouded sky. Peony petals in the air. Junhui wondered if his father was looking down at them, laughing with the two young boys below.

 

✧

 

You open my heart.

 

❋❋❋

 

On the fourth day, Wonwoo was particularly busy with business and ended up forging deals and bargains until late that night. As usual, Junhui practiced his dancing to pass the time, and spent the day at the academy where Lady Xiang undoubtedly was despite the festivities. He wasn’t sure what it was - but he felt like dancing, moving his body to express himself, to put in motion the strange almost dream-like state he’d been in ever since a certain bright-eyed man had knocked on his door a few days ago.

 

When Wonwoo finally arrived home that night, Junhui was about to go to bed, but decided against it as his merchant houseguest looked worn and would probably appreciate company as he ate the bowl of rice and side dishes that Shan had left for him on the kitchen table, accompanied now only by a single dimly-lit candle. Wonwoo relayed to Junhui the events that had taken place that day as he ate, and lingered on particularly interesting ones - a very old lady that traded him a jade box for a set of his cerulean pottery, a brother that used monthly allowance to buy one of his pearl figurines for a younger sister, a conversation with another merchant from Goryeo that was here selling scrolls of ancient text. Junhui listened quietly but intently, adding a comment here and there, almost hypnotized by the way Wonwoo so comfortably spoke to him as if they knew each other for several years and not several days. “Come to my room,” Wonwoo had said after dinner, “I want to show you something.” So Junhui obeyed and followed Wonwoo to the guest room where he slept, as Feng picked up the dishes after them (his servants stayed up as long as he did). He sat on the cold wood floor as Wonwoo swiftly pulled something out of his pack. In his milky-white hands was a fairly large (and noisy) set of silver chimes. The chimes were tiered and arranged asymmetrically in such a way that when Wonwoo delicately swayed at them with a brush of his fingers, they collided together in harmony, creating a dreamy tune along a pentatonic scale that was nostalgic yet mysterious. “Wait,” Junhui said after the song subsided. “I… I think I know this song.” And he recounted the lyrics to a melody that he thought he’d forgotten years ago,

 

I speak with my father

In a gazebo by the lake.

 

Recounting tales of old

Singing with magpies in the Spring.

 

Time, like the season, flies

A moment becomes a memory.

 

Yet my heart, in the same place

Unchanging as the moon.

 

And by the time he uttered that last word, he was sobbing, had already fallen into Wonwoo's arms. Rocked back and forth like a child with whispers from a deep voice saying I’m sorry and It’s okay. Like he was three-years-old, in his father’s embrace again, safe, protected from the world. With the naivety of a child, of almost arrogance, that nothing could hurt him. He was invincible. But then, suddenly, the feeling of vulnerability, losing his footing. Losing his hero. Taken away from him, delivered to him in a letter by Destiny from Fate. Then, from believing he could conquer the world, to hiding from it. And all he wanted to do was dance. So how did he go from that hopelessness and loneliness to this? To being held again, in the arms of a man from across the sea? And still - all he wanted to do was dance.

 

✧

 

Thank you for being there for me.

 

❋❋❋

 

On the fifth day, a special Spring opera was showing at the Golden Phoenix Theatre for the Peony Festival. Wonwoo had seen advertisements in the marketplace the day before, and, having forgotten to mention it the day before, brought it up to Junhui that morning. I forgot to tell you about it last night, the Goryeo merchant whispered apologetically in Junhui's ear as he shook the Chinese boy awake. Do you want to go with me? Junhui, (who, for the first time, was not angry at being woken up before sunrise), rolling over, answered in a small voice, I don’t think there’s anyone else I’d rather go with.

 

So that night, Junhui, already having hastily purchased tickets from a vendor earlier that day, put on his best blue-silk robes and found himself incessantly rearranging his hair in front of a bronze mirror. Wonwoo, Junhui huffed frustratedly after an unsuccessful battle with his fringe, how do I look? The boy from the peninsula, who was wearing his own wine-red tunic, only chuckled. Absolutely perfect, he’d said amidst the scent of his rose perfume. (Courtesy of Shan, who’d found it in one of the old concubine’s forgotten drawers. Scents are not inherently male or female, yes? Wonwoo had said before spritzing some on his neck.)

 

They arrived at the theatre deliberately early so as to avoid the large expanse of people Junhui knew would flood the streets as in years past. The Golden Phoenix Theatre was situated in the South-West quadrant of Luoyang in the Capital’s cramped Entertainment District, but surrounded by an open limestone-tiled area adorned with bamboo trees, plum blossoms, and sandalwood benches, making stark contrast to its dense and somewhat grungy surroundings as if to pretentiously proclaim status. Bright red-and-gold lanterns dotted the earth and illuminated the pathway that led to the theatre’s entrance atop a wide flight of stairs, its doors already open. The two boys, standing at the doorstep of the Golden Phoenix, paused. Wonwoo looked over his shoulder, locked eyes with Junhui, and, raising his brows, offered an outstretched hand, a little bashful. Junhui's gaze flickered at his hand, pupils shaking, then back into Wonwoo's gaze - and, finally smiling, took his hand into his own. Fingers laced, Wonwoo was jubilant (and perhaps a little relieved), squeezed the Chinese boy’s slender hand in his own. Smiling, laughing, the man-from-across-the-sea gently pulled Junhui into the light of the theatre, the soft scent of roses trailing behind them. That feeling of a missing piece of a forgotten puzzle sliding into place.

 

The opera was beautiful, accompanied by an orchestra of the robust Pípá, bitter-sweet Èrhú, and timeless Gǔzhēng. The lead actress played the role of a lady-turned-heroine in a war following her father’s death, taking his place in the army under the guise of a man to save China despite the odds. Her story of unconventional truth struck a chord in Junhui, and he knew Wonwoo had picked this opera for him. For them. Though admittedly, it was hard to focus even on the beauty of the music when its beauty did not, could not, compare to the man next to him, the man that held his hand gingerly in the darkness of the theatre, that set off firecrackers to the rhythm of his heart. They walked home that night in silence, hands locked, nosy onlookers be damned.

 

✧

 

I'm happy when I’m with you.

 

❋❋❋

 

On the sixth day, Wonwoo was to meet Junhui at the dance academy after he was finished business for the day. Do you have a surprise for me? Wonwoo had asked in between sips of jasmine that morning. Junhui couldn’t tell if he was joking or serious, and had only smiled. You’ll see.

 

Junhui had always danced in his spare time, practicing new and old techniques, modifying choreographies or creating them, or sometimes simply just dancing, pure improvisation motivated solely by expression, spontaneity, freedom of body. Passion. (But of course, at the discretion of Lady Xiang, who did not hesitate to give criticism and kept Junhui polished.)

 

When he’d just started learning dance as a child, he had trouble with free dance. He was young, naive, not yet jaded by the world. Indeed, in those early formative years, Junhui had no experience with love, hate, remorse, regret. Pain. Loss. Renewal. And how could he have? He didn’t live yet. Gradually over the years, his life began to be coloured by memories, good and bad, and his dancing developed more complexity, more depth. Slowly, he began to understand how to better deliver a performance, by harnessing his own emotions, using them as fuel for his body’s movements. Dance is a form of expression that links the mind and the body. Your passion, in whatever form, in whichever way you choose to shape it, flows from the inside, out. But what is passion, anyway? Is it just intense emotion? Energy? Whatever it was, Junhui himself didn’t know, only that he was good at expressing it, was praised for it by Lady Xiang, fellow students, audience members. His father.

 

Throughout the past week especially, he’d been even more passionate, or perhaps, just as passionate, but fueled by a different kind of passion. Which also hadn’t gone unnoticed by Lady Xiang. His dance lines were sharper, his body more free, limbs more relaxed. It was impossible for Junhui to identify the exact reason for this passion, how, why his body moved so differently now than before, before a young man from across the sea whose life mirrored his had knocked on his door one spring evening. But it did.

 

If there was anything Junhui had learned these past few months, it was that things that happen in life don’t come with explanations. They just happen, for better or for worse. It is us that injects meaning, us that interprets with inherently flawed personal values, ideals and beliefs, us that perceives the universe each through our own foggy lens. Mankind is unique in that way. So, when a father passes, you mourn, you grieve, but you don’t ask questions. You cherish good times, bad times, memories of poetry and sweets and kite-flying, experiences that shaped you into who you became. And when a young man with pretty brown eyes shows up at your doorstep, you open the door, and if you wish, you open your heart.  


 

Junhui harnessed this passion, this fuel, and created a new choreography. His own. A rather difficult choreography, even by Lady Xiang’s standards. Involved some complex sequences, some acrobatics, a bit of tumbling.

 

But he could do it. Wanted to do it.

 

“Hard at work?” A familiar deep voice echoed through the empty academy, breaking through Junhui's neuroticism. Wonwoo. He was finally here. The sun was still in the sky, but was nearly meeting the horizon, colouring the sky a brilliant blend of deep pink, orange, and red. The academy was roofed but had open walls, and the warm colours of the sky seeped into, saturated the inner walls of the academy, gave everything a warm glow.

 

Junhui spun around, wiping sweat from his forehead. “You came,” he said perhaps a little too blankly, panting. Maybe the setting sun could hide the blood rushing into his cheeks. “This is Lady Xiang, my teacher since I started dancing as a little boy,” he gestured to the old lady sitting at the far end of the floor, Pípá in lap. For a moment, Junhui swore that he saw her old eyes twinkle, if even a little. Lady Xiang rarely, if ever, spoke to her students outside of dance critiques. But after nearly a lifetime of being her student, Junhui could read her facial expression and body language like a book. He was sure that went both ways.

 

“Oh, how rude of me! My apologies,” Wonwoo instinctively bowed. “I’m Jeon Wonwoo of Goryeo. I’m a travelling merchant that has come to visit Luoyang, in its Spring Glory, to trade my goods during the Peony Festival. I’m a potter.” He glanced over at Junhui, who was now instinctively stretching his arms. “Junhui has been kind enough to let me stay in his family’s compound for the week.” Lady Xiang nodded in response.

 

“Um,” Junhui bit his lip, “so, thanks for coming. I prepared something.” Lady Xiang raised a painted eyebrow. “I mean,” Junhui cleared his throat, “I prepared a dance. For you.”

 

Wonwoo's eyes widened for a split second, the corners of his lips slowly curving upwards into a smile. “Well,” he said, taking a seat in front of Junhui on the dance floor, “I’d love to see it.”

 

“Okay,” Junhui replied a bit nervously. He stretched his arms and legs one last time, closed his eyes. Slowed his breathing. Felt the warmth of the setting sun over his skin. Then opened his eyes again to glance over at Lady Xiang, gesturing that he was ready, that she could start playing the Pípá to the tune he’d wanted. And he immersed himself in it, let the music envelop his body and soul, let it inform the will of his heart, guide his arms and legs. Junhui tried to lose himself into his own world, which inevitably became a world of Wonwoo, who became all he could see, feel, sense. Wonwoo, who shared so much in common with Junhui, choosing to live in his own unconventional truth. Wonwoo, whose smile shone as bright as the stars. Wonwoo, who understood Junhui's pain, his past. Wonwoo, who at the moment was sitting entirely still in front of Junhui, watching him with sharp eyes and an unmoving gaze that were focused on him and only him, as if he were the most precious gem in the world. This was his moment, their moment. They were all that mattered in the universe right now.

 

And Junhui started to dance.

 

First with heavy steps, gradually becoming lighter.

Discovery, curiosity. New growth.

I feel at ease when you are by my side.

 

Arms twisting, pushing and pulling. Out, then in. In, then out.

Ripples being made once more.

You open my heart.

 

Hands slicing through the air, clenched fists raised to the sky.

Becoming more intense.

Thank you for being there for me.

 

A flying ring jump, a leap into the air of joy.

Now rising. Recovery. Happiness.

I'm happy when I’m with you.

 

Then finally a frontal aerial that defied gravity.

Passion, peaking. Is this what it feels like to fall in love?

I want you to stay.

 

And then the music stopped. And Junhui, panting, sweating, curled into his ending pose. Then he stood up, and Wonwoo was no longer sitting from where he was before, watching him. No, Wonwoo had gotten up at some point during the dance, walked closer to Junhui without him noticing. He was too enveloped in his dancing to realize. But now, Wonwoo was standing right in front of him. Face to face, eye to eye. Closer than they’d ever been before, barely a finger’s length away. Junhui, still breathing heavily, body exhausted from the passion that flowed out of him like a river to the sea. Wonwoo, with an unreadable expression.

 

And in the next moment, their moment, that would forever be encased in time - the space between them became smaller, until there was no space left. Wonwoo, his hands coming up behind Junhui's head and neck, gently pushing them together.

 

And their lips met halfway.

 

Junhui sharply inhaled, eyelids fluttering, then closing. He felt Wonwoo's entire body up against his, pressing against every crevice of his own, and his hands running through his hair, then down his back. Everything that either of them had felt, had developed, had held back the past week, now released in a fury of passion. Wonwoo's essence entered Junhui's every orifice, his touch, his taste, his scent. He took it all in, what was so inherently, organically Wonwoo. Like the colours of the setting sun that covered the academy in its brilliance, Wonwoo's essence also seeped into, saturated Junhui's being, covered it, caressed it. And in that moment, in that final moment, Junhui at last understood what passion was. What it meant. Passion isn’t something that can be explained. Only something that could be felt.

 

After what felt like an eternity, the boy-who-danced and the boy-from-across-the-sea came apart.

 

“Thank you,” Wonwoo whispered, touching their foreheads together.

 

Then they embraced. And Junhui, for the first time in a long time, felt whole again.

 

✧

 

They both knew that they wouldn’t be sleeping alone that night. Wonwoo pulled Junhui by the hand into the darkness of his room. They wouldn’t light any candles tonight. He tugged Junhui onto the padded floor of the guest room where he slept, Junhui let himself be pulled and gently pressed onto the floor, let Wonwoo be on top of him. Wonwoo held the sides of his face with two hands, kissed him hard on the lips. Their breathing became ragged, uneven. Wanting, full of desire. Though it was dark, and Junhui could barely see, he could feel Wonwoo holding him, kissing him, the weight and detail of his body pressed firmly against his, could smell his scent like the strongest incense, was intoxicated by it more than the strongest wine. And their growing hardness beneath, the friction that ignited a fire in Junhui's belly, an intangible itch he desperately wanted to resolve. And there was only one person in the world that could resolve it in the way he wanted. They undressed, slowly.

 

“You have no idea how hard it was these past few days,” Wonwoo whispered into Junhui's ear, shooting him straight to Heaven. “I want you so bad.”

 

Junhui muffled a moan in pleasure, feeling Wonwoo's naked body on top of his. “Then have me.”

 

They made love, tenderly.

 

❋❋❋

 

On the morning of the seventh day and last day of the Peony Festival, Junhui woke up next to Wonwoo, both facing each other. Wonwoo was still asleep. He didn’t make any noise when he was sleeping. Junhui looked at Wonwoo's face slightly illuminated by the morning sun that was just starting to peek through the sandalwood window, inspected it, studied it. His eyes, tall nose, soft lips, all in perfect balance with each other, sharp jawline. On a canvas of dewy, alabaster-white skin.

 

Junhui never really thought much about his attraction to men. It was never something he’d ever discussed with anyone. Not because he was scared of the backlash or of becoming alienated, or even persecuted by the Emperor if anyone of status was to find out (well, maybe a little of that), but because he never truly thought about it. Yes, he could appreciate women like the other men around him. There were beautiful women, women that dressed nicely, smelled good, were good at what they did when pleasing men. Well-versed in poetry, faithfully re-filling cups with wine, painted nails and red lips that could explore dark places. But he never truly understood the appeal of pleasure houses, of singing girls, of concubines. Not as a child, and not now. Junhui preferred Wonwoo's hardness to the soft body of a woman, and the masculinity of his mannerisms, boyishness of his behaviour. His deep voice that reverberated throughout the room when he laughed, the roughness of his hands. The way Wonwoo made him feel safe. And Junhui liked the way Wonwoo was the same height as him. His scent, richer, muskier than the scent of girls. He knew that it wasn’t normal for a man to want the love and attention of another man, but that was simply the way he felt. Was that wrong? Perhaps, some would think so. But couldn’t love exist in more than one form? Who could define what love was? Who could say that the way Junhui feels about Wonwoo was not love? The recipient of one’s love might be different, but the intent, the essence, the source of that love, is always the same. It comes from the heart. From something called passion.

 

Junhui took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. He rolled over, laying eyes on Wonwoo's packs that he brought with him seven days ago, when he’d first come here, knocking on his door. Not knowing who, what was on the other end of it. How it would change both of them. Junhui looked at all of Wownoo's trading goods, old and new, neatly organized in a corner of the room (fortunately, they hadn’t knocked any over last night), and realized that Wonwoo really had done a lot this past week. He’d managed to sell or trade most of his own works, and they were mostly gone - now replaced by an assortment of others, all sorts of expensive, rare, and beautiful items that Wonwoo could make a living of in Goryeo for the next while.

 

And then it hit him, hard. That Wonwoo had to leave. Was supposed to leave. Today. Junhui knew it would happen, was going to happen, right from the beginning, but pushed it, locked it up into a deep, dark corner in the back of his mind.

 

“Good morning,” Wonwoo said in an even deeper and huskier voice than usual, rubbing his eyes. “Slept well?”

 

Junhui turned around to face him, snapping out of his stupor. They were both still lying down, still under the silk sheets. Still unclothed. “Had the best sleep ever.” That was the truth.

 

“Great.” Wonwoo smiled, his eyes forming crescent-moons again. Junhui smiled almost reflexively. But did Junhui have to lose this? Was this going to be taken away from him again? His smile faltered, slightly. Then Wonwoo's did, too, an air of concern in his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

 

“Wonwoo, I have to ask you something,” the Chinese boy spoke in a tone as serious as he could muster without crying. “When you go back to Goryeo… Will you write to me? Letters?” He tried desperately to stop his voice from shaking. “Will you remember me?” A single tear streamed down his cheek. He hated himself for this. He always did cry easily, ever since he was a child. He hated crying. It made him feel even more vulnerable than he already was.

 

Wonwoo furrowed his brow in concern. He wiped Junhui's tear away with a soft brush of his thumb. “How would I forget you if I never leave?” Wonwoo said, smiling again, a little weakly.

 

Junhui's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. He stared at Wonwoo for a long moment, incredulous. “Wait, are you not…” He felt dizzy, his throat was dry. “What do you mean? You aren’t leaving?” He exclaimed, in disbelief. “Your whole life was there!” His voice quivered, hands shaking. “Your work, your village, your family--”

 

“Junhui.” Wonwoo cut in gently, holding the Chinese boy’s hands firmly in his own. “Junhui, I lived in a small hut, in a very small village by the sea. Alone. I… I was so lonely, for so long. Junhui, you know how that feels right? The only thing that kept me alive… the only reason why I’m still here living, here in the world today, is because there was… is a small piece of me that wishes that my father would some day return from the sea, although I know, in my heart, that he’s gone. I could never admit that to myself. I still can’t. But that small sliver of hope… that’s what I was holding onto. This,” he gestured to the pile of his remaining works, a sack of coins, his bargains, his traded goods sitting in the corner of the guest room, “is all I have. I have no family in Goryeo.” Wonwoo looked into Junhui's eyes, so tenderly, so lovingly, as if Junhui were more precious than a newborn baby, than all the gold in the world, more divine than the Son of Heaven himself (was blasphemy, could be executed for saying that aloud, but damn it all). And each word Wonwoo spoke next, as he was holding Junhui's shaking hands, as he was looking into Junhui's wide eyes, sincere, raw, truthful, rang into Junhui's ears like a timeless poem. “You are my family now.”

 

★

 

And so, Wonwoo never left.

 

Shan and Feng helped set up a potter’s wheel in the field behind the compound for him to work on his pottery, and he stored his tools and materials in a mahogany-wood shed they built together, along with Junhui. Wonwoo was still able to do what he loved (and be with the person he loved). Eventually, years later, he saved up enough money to purchase a vacancy in the Town Square, next to Little Xuan’s Noodles, and established his own thriving business called “Big Xuan’s Fine Ceramics”. Wonwoo's bowls, plates, and chopsticks became widely known in Luoyang for their quality and its unique Goryeo-inspired designs, and quickly became the standard in many restaurants (including Little Xuan’s). A tall white-cerulean and green-jade vase with hand-painted peonies, which he spent an entire spring working on, had even attracted the attention of an Imperial Princess, and she'd purchased it (or rather, took it, for free) for her own private quarters in the palace. Wonwoo couldn’t be happier (and neither could Junhui).

 

Junhui continued dancing. He was still active at Lady Xiang’s academy, and often participated in recitals that were held publicly at the Town Square (he also gave Wonwoo private dance “recitals” on the fifth day of every week, at Wonwoo's request). One day, Junhui was scouted outside of the academy and ushered to an audition for an opera at the Golden Phoenix. He ended up taking the role, and afterward, started a career in theatre, taking on extra positions at first and gradually working his way up to supporting roles and finally, leading roles. Junhui also began actively teaching the academy’s newer recruits and younger students. One day, Lady Xiang, who'd seen Junhui grow from the beginning, asked for him to take over the academy as its head instructor. Junhui vehemently opposed the idea, but when Lady Xiang passed a few years later, he immediately took on the role in her honour.

 

In the coming years, Shan and Feng eventually passed on, and Junhui had their bodies cremated, as they had requested. He placed their ashes in the finest, most beautiful containers, which Wonwoo had made specially for them, and placed them at the altar beside his father and mother.

 

And every year, Junhui and Wonwoo would celebrate the Peony Festival in Luoyang, in the splendor of Spring, with the Son of Heaven and everyone that came to see the Glory of China.

 

When he wasn’t dancing, annoying Wonwoo at Big Xuan’s Fine Ceramics, or teaching at the academy, Junhui wrote poetry. One day, he felt compelled to write one that he and Wonwoo would remember forever.

 

Do you remember

 

Those Seven Days to Heaven? We bloomed with the peonies

 

You held my hand under the sapphire sky

That Spring Day

 

Painted me, who was gray

with your colours

 

I want to be your lover until the ends of the earth

Until the summers snow

and the winters blossom

 

You, the man from across the sea.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I will admit I had a hard time writing this, because despite being half chinese(other half being Korean) I don't know much about the Tang Dynasty, which basically means I had to go on a reading spree before I could write this.(-｡-;  
> But nonetheless I think it turned out nicely.  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed!  
> Bye (^-^)/
> 
> Fun fact: I wanted to write this fic ever since Chinese New Year...
> 
> Twitter- ichogiwantodie


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